A Living Dance upon Dead Minds
by Petrarch's Pillowcases
Summary: Sweeney Todd. Mrs. Lovett says I can have anything I want and all I have to say is please. Please? Toby in the asylum, revival world.
1. Prologue: Halloween

**A Living Dance upon Dead Minds**

Disclaimer: All due credit to Bond, Wheeler, and Sondheim.

A/N: This is a "revival-world" piece. If you haven't seen it, know that Toby is thinking back on the events in an insane asylum and mentally casting the inmates and doctors in the roles. The woman described throughout is one of his caretakers, and Toby identifies her with Pirelli. And if you haven't seen this revival, run, don't walk.

"Always a beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question" – e.e. cummings

xxxxx

**October 31, 1848. London, England. 4:18 am.**

The moon slips out of London at night.

No one really notices except the lovers, and there are certainly no lovers here. Here there is steel, and it really could be moonlight. Some of the tenants want the lanterns on at night, so they can pretend it's moonlight. Here there is a lot of pretending. It's in the air, and it settles into the spaces between the bars. Fantasy. The monsters come to life here.

A monster lurks these very hallways. It can kill with its eyes.

She walks with a lantern and mission, the stern cacophony of her footsteps echoing and dispersing into the night. A scream from #298 woke her up, but the right combination of fluids from the apothecary can put even these children to sleep. But once she is awake, she is awake, and she's coming to battle an old rival. She brought the weaponry: a bucket of soap water and a sponge. It's time.

Room #403 is no longer in use, but it is one of only about twelve rooms with a window. In the very corner of the room, below the not-quite-functional sink, is a grouping of lines and arrows. They don't seem to mean anything, but if one traces a careful finger along the lines, they forge a distinct route from one place to another. The lines correspond with passageways under the building that date back to the asylum's days as a dungeon. They lead right to the streets of London, not far from the decks where the sailors come in. Not far from the sea.

She picks up her sponge and her bucket and begins to scrub. The work is tedious, but the lines slowly but surely disappear. No one really knew they existed, and they didn't lead to any serious asylum break-outs.

Except for one.

There is a word above the lines. It is clearer than the map and much younger; it's something she remembers (has been trying to forget). She collapses on the floor and simply stares at it for moments on end. She could laugh or cry or smile or pound the steel walls until someone wakes up. But she simply sits and wonders whatever happened to…

Crazy. They're all damned crazy, and she is crazy for putting up with them.

The map is gone. It could have never existed. The word could have never existed, and hell the building could have never existed, and she could be sitting in a man's living room eating biscuits and watching the sun rise. He could kiss her head softly and tell her that he thinks tomorrow would be the perfect day for a stroll. Perfect.

No, she is here. Not the woman in her head, never will be. She is _not _a captive of her own foolish subconscious, and she can pride herself on that fact. She picks up the bucket and the sponge and leaves the name on the wall (and everything else) behind.

_Toby._


	2. March 19

**I. March 19, 1848. London, England. 9:43 am.**

"Eat your breakfast."

"It's not red. I used to eat red things," he rasps intently. Another morning, another breakfast run. Another lunatic with a story she simply must hear.

"It's oatmeal. It's not supposed to be red."

"It was red, for some reason it was always red. Like blood is red or the front door here is red. Ma used to make red soups for me, and they were delicious. I like the color red, but then I started seeing too much of it. Too much of a good thing, that's not good, right? Red in the gutter, red on her apron…"

"Who's apron?"

"Why, Mrs. Lovett's, o'course."

"Of course."

Number 102. Tobias Ragg, a recent acquisition recovered from a rather nasty display of murder down on Fleet Street. She was up all last night trying to tend to his fever, and she overdid it a bit with some of the standard medications. He's much better, and these are the first intelligible words he's said in weeks.

But she's heard Mrs. Lovett's name before. He talks in his sleep, like so many of the others. Mrs. Lovett must play quite the role in his nightmares.

"Oatmeal's really runny, reminds me of gin. She gave me gin, the first time was… the day Signor Pirelli disappeared. I remember it because of the purse. The purse… did it burn too? What with the few quid that were in it and it makes sense that she still has a few quid. Mrs. Lovett says you shan't go anywhere without a few quid. She'll go to the pawn shop this morning and buy herself a nice necklace. She said she had her eye on one, I remember."

She guides another spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. He's in a straightjacket most of the time because no one can really be sure if he murdered the people found on Fleet Street. He doesn't have the temperament of murderer, though. She's actually more inclined to believe that without the straightjacket, he'd hurt himself.

"You don't suppose it's going to rain? Rain's bad for business, and I know. That's what Mrs. Lovett says all the time. But it's good for the flowers, that's what she says. I don't see outside much, but the lady next to me has a window. Sometimes I look out of it and think that she can see me."

"Mrs. Lovett?"

"Yes. No. My ma. I don't remember much excepting that she likes flowers. The flowers were red too and the soup and it makes sense. Mrs. Lovett likes flowers and they both got flowers for him. And then they died, those flowers. Pirelli used to say what's gone is gone, and that's what he said when he took me off the street. Cause my mother is… was… gone. Is the oatmeal gone?"

"No, there's still half a bowl," she mutters idly.

"Did I have a sister? I dumped a bucket of cold water on her once. She screamed so loud I swear half of London heard her. So loud. Did you hear her? Were you in London? Are we in London? Worst pies in the world or just London, but people loved 'em. Love, she says, is the special ingredient, and hard work and time and care and love. And fingernails. Damned fingernails or something. How about you? Shave and a haircut? You're in a fine mood today…"

She's a bit weary today, and this is just some disjointed rambling, nothing particularly out of the ordinary. Time is relative here, and sometimes past events bleed together in the inmates' minds. But they never address her personally. They talk to the wall or the ghosts of their past lives, but never to her. She ignores it. He thinks she's someone else.

"Fine mood and Toby, mind the gentlemen, and I used to pray to the Virgin Mary. I did, and I would ask her if she could send me someone who loved me. That was my mother or a statue, but she answered my prayer, she did. It wasn't Pirelli, but Mrs. Lovett, of course. Of course! It's Mrs. Lovett and she knits for me and gets me bonbons. Maybe if I'm good, you could, or something? Mrs. Lovett says that I can have anything I want and all I have to say is please. Please?"

"Mrs. Lovett was wrong."

She says it slowly and deliberately, accenting every syllable so that it will sink in. He'll learn that no one ever gets what they want by just asking. Nothing is ever that simple.

She feeds him the last bit of oatmeal. He stares up at her as if waiting for her to say something. There is something chillingly needy about his eyes. Mrs. Lovett, whoever she was, felt sorry for him. She shouldn't think much of it; this Mrs. Lovett is probably dead.

"Wrong. Very wrong. She washes bed sheets in cold water and sings while she works and I don't know what she does. It's not right or Christian and he put her up to it, I'm sure. There's red in the lavabo, always was. I won't think about it, and I promised her I wouldn't. But sometimes… he beats her, you know."

"Who's he?" she asks quietly. She berates herself silently for even sounding interested.

"Not the one with the lavabo, the other one. Dark eyes and big hands and he hurt her and he killed the flowers. Winter killed the flowers. Then I sold the bucket and the statue when she died. But she came back. And he did too. They always do, don't they?"

Fifteen other inmates need breakfast. She tears her ears away and braces herself for the people who ramble without any overdoses. She has her sanity, and that's a wonder in itself. Maybe he won't talk tomorrow. In the evening he pretends there is a window to look out of. She'd pity him, but if she starts to pity anyone, she'd slip.

"Yes. They do."

She doesn't know why she said that. Three syllables and she could be just as crazy as he is. But no one ever comes back, at least no one ever comes back to her (she supposes this Pirelli is right). She locks the door behind her, and Tobias turns away. In spite of everything, she wants to know if he is smiling.

It would be the first smile here in weeks.


	3. April 14

**II. April 14, 1848. London, England. 10:50 pm.**

Tonight, she'll walk the wrong way.

In ten minutes, she'll begin weaving her way through the hallways and dimming the lanterns. Usually she just starts at the end and works her way toward her own quarters, but she took a nap today. It was foolish and selfish of her, not to mention potentially dangerous. She's aware that she is letting her guard down, and she needs to be more careful, more exact in her internal alarm system. She daren't sleep tonight.

Mrs. Lovett's name sounds familiar. Where has she heard it before?

She starts her trek from her quarters tonight, methodically wishing everyone goodnight. Every so often she gets a grunt in return, but for the most part they are silent. Not many of them sleep, and the ones who do sleep toss and turn and scream. Their nightmares must be vivid. She wonders if they see her in their nightmares. Is she the one who makes them scream?

When she reaches the end of the corridor, she realizes she has to walk back to her quarters in the dark. Only a few inmates insist on keeping the lanterns on, and it is not nearly enough to light her way. Oh, but she's not afraid. A little tense and uncomfortable, maybe, but not afraid.

The conversations come out at night.

"Libera me, Domine, de morta aeterna, en die illa tremenda: Quando caeli movendi sunt…"

"What the 'ell is the bugger over there saying?"

"Praying, I bet."

"What we got to pray for?"

"Dunno. It sounds like Greek."

"Sounds like 'orse shit."

She walks faster.

"I cannot sleep for dreaming nor dream for sleeping. I cannot… moon? I think of you and I think of lullabies. I can sing lullabies and no one sings them back…"

"Sleep, love."

"Sing to me."

"You sing enough for the both of us."

"Why are you here?"

"Disturbed the peace. A judge didn't like me, and I'm here. Days now, years. I'm going mad."

"We're all mad here. Sing to me?"

"In the morning, maybe. You'll wake up and they'll be rejoicing. Dream of that."

"Rejoicing. Sorrow or something like it?"

"Sleep, love."

Steps against steel. Don't think, don't even breathe too loudly. Walk.

"Mrs. Lovett says she always likes waking up before sunrise…"

She stops. He hasn't spoken in weeks, not since March.

"And she always…"

"I 'eard yeh the first time."

"Sorry. Night."

"Night."

"Sometimes I miss her…"

"Would yeh shut up already?"

"Sorry. Night."

"Night."

"But I'm there often, you know, Mrs. Lovett's pie shop and she laughs about how…"

The women in the adjacent room spits. It echoes off the walls and rumbles like a low moan. Tobias whimpers, and she can almost see the other woman snarling.

"Nellie Lovett was a rotten whore," she mutters.

"Sorry?"

"NELLIE LOVETT WAS A GREEDY DEVILISH PIG AND A FILTHY ROTTEN WHORE!"

The muttering stops, and the word "whore" mocks the asylum by lingering longer than its welcome. She fumbles for her keys, grabs a gag, and makes a mental note to transfer #103 to solitary first thing tomorrow morning.

But for now, she walks. Walks and listens.

"I think I misplaced my wife. I had a family or some people like and one day they were there and the next… gone. Evicted, maybe. There were kids and they had names just I don't remember. It's been some time really. I know they were stupid little buggers and they probably grew up to be stupid little buggers. Not like I would know, mind you. You know why I'm here?"

He won't get an answer. The woman in the room beside him spends all of her time pretending to knit in a complacent silence.

"I attacked a man. I don't remember him either except he died three days later. Fat, pompous bugger. Thought he could buy out the world and I showed him, I did. Knife in the stomach, slashed the groin, too. Good times."

She would throw up on the floor. She would, but she can't.

"I believed in dignity, and that got me in the arse later. Ha. Not much else to consider, eh? Dignity and madness. All that's left is the crazy chap in the asylum with nothing possibly to lose or gain or love. I think I'll get out and find them. Yes, that's what I'll do."

He'll never get out. Security and maintenance here are above par. He'll talk to walls for the rest of his life.

She reaches the end of the hallway. Really, she should demand more money, hire a personal assistant, do something more than just listen to them day in and day out. They've stolen all of her good dreams. They keep them in a little box under all of their beds and look at them when they get bored.

No. Sleep is superfluous, a waste of her time and ability. There is work to be done, so much work to be done.

She reaches her quarters and starts with progress reports on a few of the inmates. The phrases bleed into each other, almost lulling her to sleep. But it's their voices that triumph in the end.

The girl ("sorrow or something like it?") begins to sing:

"_Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright._"

And one voice, stark and sinister, breaks the darkness:

"You'll never believe what I found under my sink today…"


	4. May 23

**III. May 23, 1848. London, England. 11:22 am.**

"Look, they've come for us! They've come with their golden ship, and they are going to bring us home now! Home! Oh, look, a star! A goddess! Blessed Virgin, could it be?"

The girl who kept the entire asylum awake last night with her warbled singing has flown into a frenzy. She pounds at her walls and yells eternal gratitude that no one can hear. Of course, no one has come to save her.

The girl quiets for a moment, and three knocks break the silence.

"GLORY HALLELUJAH!"

Someone really is here; someone actually wants to enter the asylum of their own free will. It must be someone with a wrong address, maybe a wigmaker or a drunk who's mistaken the place for a pub. Those are the only people who ever knock on this door. She opens the door tentatively and almost slams it shut when she glimpses the visitor's face.

It is the most beautiful girl she has ever seen. Blond and graceful and exquisite. The girl smiles and swallows deeply. This place is surely below her. She must have high teas at illustrious botanical gardens and use phrases like "at your leisure" and "by your leave."

"Yes, miss?"

"Hello," the girl chirps brightly.

"How may I help you, miss?"

"Yes, right. Well, my name is… I mean… I was once…um… unjustly incarcerated at Fogg's asylum, and I was wondering if this asylum had recovered anything from Fogg's. You see I left my reticule there and it was the only thing my mother…"

"Come in please."

She leads the girl out of the doorway and into the administrative office of the asylum. She shuffles through various sets of keys until finding the right one. The girl looks on with her wide eyes, frightened and unsure of what to say

"We were able to clean out that asylum and recover most of the inmates' possessions. We keep them in a safe in one of the back rooms. If you can describe it for me, I can see if we have it," she says authoritatively.

"Well, can't I just take a look for myself?"

"No. We believe a few of the items we found may be potentially dangerous."

"Oh, well, then. It's a light gold silk with red beads on it. It was in my mother's family for ages, I think. Oh, and I haven't, um, introduced myself. Sorry. I'm Johanna. And you are?"

"I'll look for it in the back room. You can stay here. Please, don't wander too far."

"Of course. Um, thanks?"

She could laugh. Such a gorgeous little thing, and this Johanna can barely get out a proper sentence. Unjustly incarcerated? Technically, that gives her the right to reinstate Johanna in this asylum as an escapee of the fiasco at Fogg's. But she'll let her go if only because…

Wait. Fiasco at Fogg's. She was on the street trying to subdue the lunatics when she heard that some pretty little blond thing was the one to kill Fogg. It couldn't possibly be the same pretty little…

The reticule in question is located under a rather rusty pair of shears. It's real silk, and it would be worth quite a few quid indeed. She could lock up the girl and sell the reticule, even though the reticule is quite old and the girl seems sane enough. It would be heartless, certainly, but perfectly justified under the law. She could even prove this girl a murderer and send her to jail.

Splendid.

When she returns to the office, this Johanna girl is gone. Of course, anyone who does come in always wants to wander. She heaves a frustrated sigh and scans the hallways. The flash of Johanna's golden hair gives her away; the girl is kneeling in front of Tobias's cell.

"What about my father?" Johanna whispers, her voice nearly breaking with anticipation.

"Him and… and Mrs. Lovett. I think it was the chair. The chair, and the beadle came down and the judge…"

"My father!"

"NO! No, I did it. I was me… and it was three times. Because he kept saying something about her, about a lie, and ashes…"

"Wait, Toby, right? You mean to say Judge Turpin wasn't my father?"

"No. Yes. Todd. Sweeney. Oh, Mr. T and…"

"Mr. Todd? He… that Mr. Todd? Anthony said that he would hide us, and he killed fath—Judge Turpin. And a woman. And me. I mean, he would have…"

(She wants to gag Toby again and lock up Johanna and put an end to this. She wants to cut off Johanna's pretty yellow hair and hear her scream for her mummy and daddy. How dare this silly little twit talk to Tobias… when she can't?)

"Excuse me," she interrupts coolly. "I thought I told you not to wander."

"Oh, I… I'm sorry. He knew my name. He said 'You must be Miss Johanna.' And I was surprised because I didn't know him. He's been awfully kind to me."

"He spoke to you?"

"Yes…"

"I believe this reticule fits your description."

"Oh, thank you. Now, I best be off. My fiancé and I are hoping to leave London…"

"No, Miss Johanna, _I_ was hoping to ask you a few questions. You were in Fogg's the night of the mass breakout, correct? Do you have any idea who killed Fogg himself?"

"Well, I…"

"She didn't do it!" Tobias spits out. "Please don't lock her up or hurt her! He used to talk about her, he did! Before… before… She's the only one left!"

"I didn't ask you, Ragg," she hisses.

"Toby… Call him Toby!" Johanna spits. "And I didn't kill Fogg, and I won't go back to another one of these places! That's what you want, isn't it? I can't stay here anymore! My father's dead, and I'm not even sure who he is! Tonight, I'm leaving, and you can't stop me! Good day!"

Johanna runs out. She stops, realizes she left her reticule, and turns around to claim it. When she finally makes it out the door, the sound of her sobs spill through the threshold and into the asylum.

Tobias grasps the bars of his cell and rests his head against the steel. She moves to gag him, but a few words escape him first…

"I'm fine, Johanna. Another good day, another red day. We learn, Johanna. Goodbye, Johanna."


	5. June 19

**IV. June 19, 1848. London, England. 8:13 am.**

"You're late."

John Rook, a fellow caretaker, slops into the asylum drenched in rainwater. It drips a bit on her shirt, and she wipes it off, disgusted at his casual attire and behavior. He hangs up a worn coat and turns to her, addresses her in an almost friendly manner:

"It's really disgusting out there. It's rained for almost a fortnight. Well, only in London. How is everybody? What did I miss?"

"You're late, and you weren't even here yesterday. Where were you?"

She turns to Rook with the same stern eyes she gives naughty inmates. He sighs and wipes the rainwater off of his thinning hair. He only is really there to help with the proceedings; she and two other men really run the asylum. She's heard somewhere that he is splitting this job with work at a bar.

"I don't work on Sundays," he reminds her, as if she didn't already know. He goes to church on Sundays, something she gave up ages ago.

"Yesterday was Friday."

"Was it? Oh, sorry, I've been a bit preoccupied. You see, my wife is going to have a baby."

"Oh, congratulations. Start getting to work on time," she deadpans.

He shrugs noncommittally. He spent all of last year badgering her to just _find someone already_ and pointing out rather rudely that she wasn't getting any younger. She avoids him now because she has an obligation to fulfill. It is something he does not understand.

"So, did I miss anything?"

"Number 103, Emmeline Mooney, has been throwing herself against the walls ever since I put her solitary…"

"Why did you put her is solitary?"

"She started screaming profanities in the middle of the night. She looked to attack the boy in the neighboring cell. Have you ever heard the name Nellie Lovett?"

"Yes. She used to own a pie shop on Fleet Street. She went missing the day of the murders. Why?"

"That's who she was cursing off."

"Oh, well, I don't know much about pie shop owners. I'll take the upper wing come breakfast time."

"Cheers."

She starts the morning patrol, and the inmates are just beginning to wake up. In fifteen minutes, the wake-up bell will ring, but most of the inmates spent the night screaming or moaning or muttering incoherently. A good night, overall.

"Morning, Ma'am."

She thinks for a moment that it is Tobias with his little-boy voice and needy eyes. He has taken to saying hello to her whenever he can before reverting back into a state of random jerky motions and tortured silences. She turns to wish him good morning back (she would smile too, and that's the strange thing), but it's the man a few rooms over. _Knife in the stomach, slashed the groin, too. Good times._

"I was betting Knitty over here five quid that you wouldn't answer me back. Well, I would have anyway, but she doesn't seem to say much. We've never been properly introduced, have we?" he sneers.

"Rook! Gag over here please!"

"Oh, he can't hear you. He's all the way upstairs."

"Meeker! Gag over here please!"

"Oh, I think he's in solitary, and he's having his own struggles. But you know that already. You fancy him, don't you?"

"That is preposterous." She takes out her notepad and talks as she writes. "No breakfast for #95."

"Oh, we're all civilized here. We can use names, can't we? I'm Jack. And you are?"

He is snarling at her through the bars. He's insane, just insane, and if she keeps telling herself that maybe he'll shut up like the others. It is her job, no, her responsibility to make sure these people know their place.

"Well then Jack, if cannot handle yourself properly around others then perhaps I should move you to solitary. Then when the demons come at night, there will be no one to hear you scream."

She continues her walk down the hallway and is rather proud of herself. But Jack is not quite defeated. He sticks out his arm out of his cell in a vulgar gesture and yells out:

"YOU CAN'T SAY THAT TO ME! YOU… YOU BITCH! YOU WON'T KEEP ME HERE FORVER!"

Meeker has heard this, and he is already on Jack with a gag and a straightjacket. She makes a note to transfer him to solitary tomorrow morning, so he can have to day to cool off and apologize if he wants to.

Meeker turns to her. "I know you're quite busy, but there a cell a few meters down that is empty."

"_What?_"

She doesn't have to look far. Tobias has abandoned his cell and is lying in "Knitty's" lap. "Knitty" keeps at her task and hums softly while she works.

"Mrs. Lovett, I've come home. Oh, it's so wonderful to see you again. Did you get the necklace? No? They were selling it for too much, weren't they? Of course they were. Any more bonbons, Mrs. Lovett? I've been such a good boy. She's never told me that, but I can tell because she almost smiled once. But I still hear your voice. Toby, love. I'll work in the bake house, just like you says to me. And then…"

"Tobias! Tobias, how did you…"

She gets the right key and helps him out of the woman's lap. The woman continues knitting as if nothing has happened.

"Tobias? Toby?"

It's Jack's voice, and she struggles not to turn her head. Not his booming bellow, but a pleading rasp, a whisper. He's remembering something, maybe. He won't do well in solitary; he'll be screaming every night.

"Sorry, ma'am, but she's here. Mrs. Lovett's here! And I was so hoping…" Tobias rasps excitedly.

"That's not Mrs. Lovett."

"What?"

"That's not Nellie Lovett. That woman has been in the asylum for almost three years. Nellie Lovett is dead."

"No."

"Yes."

"NO!"

"Yes. She's dead, and you saw her die."

She's speculating, but the words hit home with him in a way she never expected. Tobias falls to his knees, latches onto her side and begins to sob. Everyone stares at them through the bars, and she tries to hiss at him to stop. He's too close, much too close. He cries harder, grabbing her pants letting the tears run all the way down to her shoes. This_ has_ to stop. She thinks maybe…if she can...maybe he would...

"It's all right, Toby, love. Stop crying."

And he listens.


	6. July 4

**V. July 4, 1848. London, England. Nearing 2 pm.**

It's been two weeks. Two bloody weeks since she did the morning patrol and found two cells empty. The guards swore they saw no one leave and even Meeker could not figure out how they did it. It was his head on the block, though, considering it was a part of his end of the wing. He left last Tuesday, and now the entire floor is hers until they find a replacement.

_You fancy him, don't you? _

It was him. It was Jack who got out, Jack and the woman he referred to as "Knitty." They could not have left out the front door, for that door is bolted shut at night. The police have been looking for them, and both the cells have been searched for any indication of where they went. What they found in the woman's cell was insignificant.

Jack's cell, however, was an entirely different matter.

It was an old batch of lines under the sink written in some extremely old ink. To the ignorant eye, the lines meant nothing, but when she shifted a few of the floor stones _just so_, she discovered to a dilapidated stairwell and an underground passage (eighteen cells still have stone floors. If only…). The lines mapped out the hallways underground. Rook followed the passage, and he reported that it led him to a spot a few meters from the port.

But Jack and Knitty were gone by then.

And they found a word, a name. Toby. She remembers Jack's tortured voice the day before he escaped. She remembers how he almost slapped her once when she tried to put him in a straightjacket. And she remembers his first night and the first words he said to Knitty:

"Ragg. It was my name, and I gave it to her. She died with it. They will, too."

Oh Jesus.

She is relieved and mortified to find police at the door today. They wipe their boots off and complain idly of the summer heat. They express the wish that they had a little gin. She wishes they would just get down to business.

"Ma'am, we found the woman who escaped, or a woman who looks like her," says the one with a rather bushy moustache.

"Where is she? Can you return her to us?"

"We're afraid we found her body."

She pauses for a moment _(Any more bonbons Mrs. Lovett?)_

Moustache-man clears his throat. "We'll need you or one of your colleagues to identify it."

"I can send Rook first thing tomorrow morning. Is that _all_?"

"No. We've been meaning to speak to you regarding Tobias Ragg. We have reason to believe he has invaluable information regarding the murders on Fleet Street almost a year ago. We figured we would give him some time here to recover from the shock, but we believe it is time to get to the bottom of the matter."

"Tobias Ragg has not spoken any intelligible words since the escapes. I am inclined to believe he needs more time."

"We'll give you another month to get Tobias in a condition to attend an interrogation."

She opens her mouth to speak, but they are bidding her good day (and whispering something about a whorehouse down the street). It's not nearly enough time to get Tobias in any position to talk to the police. She'll need to spend time with him and the chilling grey eyes and the pleading voice and the stories of Mrs. Lovett and her apron…

She approaches his cell, and she is almost afraid to enter. He's been crying again, and she realizes that there are still tear stains on her pants. When she comes in, he doesn't even notice. She removes his gag, and he lets out a shaky breath. They begin.

"Tobias?" she whispers.

"He hurt her."

"She's dead."

"How?"

"I don't know."

"When I came out, the room still smelled like her."

"Mrs. Lovett?"

"Yes. And I knew it was him, I did."

"The barber? He's dead, too."

"I know. You don't know, but I know."

"Can you tell them?"

"Who?"

"The police. They want to… ask questions. About what you saw."

"They'll hurt me."

"No, they won't. They just want to know the truth."

"No, they don't."

"Yes, they do."

"Everything? I could tell them, from the beginning. It started the night we buried mother, and it ends here. With you. And there's Pirelli in the caravan and there's the barber who has his… eyebrows. Father's eyebrows. And there's Mrs. Lovett who walks quickly but makes her pies slowly and grinds meat smoothly. And she died because she called everybody 'love' and knew something that no one else knew. And she dies again in my head, over and over and over again. And I _told _her that she would be all right, that the entire world could bleed open and the lavabo would be bright red and she would be alive because I loved her so much. And it would be enough. I was wrong, and she's really dead. She was dead the first time, when she was in bed and she wouldn't wake up, and that… was mother. Father changed his name to Jack and told us to be good. He's gone, and it's my fault, and you're here, and it's over. And you _are _here. Who are you?"

She hasn't moved or breathed since he started talking. It is all starting to make sense, his parents and the barber and Mrs. Lovett. And now she has to answer the question because she can't solve everything by just gagging him and leaving him with Mrs. Lovett's dying screams. She doesn't have the heart.

But she can't just answer the question. Nothing is ever that simple.

"Please. Tell me who you are."

_(Mrs. Lovett says that I can have anything I want and all I have to say is please)_

"Toby. I'm not your mother, and I'm not Mrs. Lovett."

"Please?"

"It's not important. I have to check on the other inmates. Good night."

"I can see the moon from her window."

She kneels down and kisses his forehead. It's the first time she's touched someone she wasn't feeding, bathing, or restraining. She takes in the taste of the sweat mingled with dirt and maybe blood. And something that is distinctly Toby, and she is suddenly aware that Mrs. Lovett kissed this forehead.

She wishes she knew the Toby Mrs. Lovett knew.


	7. August 7

**VI. August 7, 1848**. **London, England. Mid-afternoon.**

"Are you ready?"

She takes off the straightjacket (for good this time), and he simply stares up at her, bewildered. He's stopped mumbling, and he's tiptoeing back into sanity. With a heavy sigh, he lifts his head (he knows what he has to do).

"Toby, you got a letter today."

It is easier to address him as Toby, and maybe it's because he constantly asks her who she is. If Meeker were here, he would say that the boy is considering her a friend, and that is dangerous. Huh. She would like to have Toby as a friend. She would_ love_ to have Toby as a friend.

"A letter?"

"From Johanna. Would you like to read it?"

"Can't. Would you?"

"Read it to you? Of course."

She makes a big deal out of clearing her throat, and he smiles at that.

"_Dearest Toby,_

_Anthony and I have reached the English Channel and are heading into France. Can you believe it? But we went through the English countryside, and it was… I don't know how to describe it. Mesmerizing, that's it. Anthony tells me stories that he heard on his travels, and he says England's got the best stories of all. We got married in a little church by the sea, and it was more than I've ever dreamt of. _

_We send you all our love, and hope you are well. Don't let that nasty woman get to you. I'm sure if you are good they can transfer you into a boys' school. I will make a point to visit if we are ever in London._

_Yours,_

_Johanna_

_P.S. Thank you._"

She winces slightly.

"I don't think you're nasty," Toby says quickly, grey eyes pleading yet strikingly honest.

"You don't?"

"Are they going to take me away?"

"They are just going to ask you questions. If they think you're… okay, then they'll send you to a boys' school."

"What if…"

"If they think you committed any of the murders, they'll probably send you to prison."

"Oh. Oh, you don't know."

"Just tell them the truth, Toby."

He jerks his head toward the steel wall, banging once, twice, three times. His lower lip is trembling slightly, and he's trying so hard to tell her something, something that he's been trying so hard to forget…

"You killed him, didn't you?"

"I did," he chokes out.

"He hurt her, didn't he?"

"I'm… not even sure who she is anymore."

She kneels down and looks him in the eye. Breathe in, out. Three minutes time and she'll never see him again. And his hand is creeping up her arm, and she flinches slightly.

"Shh…" he whispers.

His fingers work their way up her neck and into her hair. It is now she realizes that she left it down to today (her reflection said she should. And she was crazy enough to listen). All he is doing is trying to comb out a tangle in her hair, nothing more. His fingers are gentle, and it reminds her somehow of being seven and letting her mother braid her hair. It is a time she's misplaced in her memory, and she left a bit of herself at the asylum gate. Here are the missing pieces, then. Her cheeks burn and she's leaving beads of sweat on his arm and fingertips. Sweat and tears.

He deserves more than a few pence and a muffler from a woman in a pie shop. _The cats were dead, _(mutters Emmeline Mooney in her sleep),_ but the people came from the man upstairs. She put bloody 'love' into her pies. Love and flesh. _And to think_ that_ was Toby's Mrs. Lovett. He should find someone who cares about him as much as…

Well, as much as his mother did.

He releases her hair gently, smiles again. He has so much love and nowhere to put it, and she hopes Mrs. Lovett, wherever she is now, knew how much he cared about her. She almost wishes…

"Just the truth, Toby," she croons, almost like a lullaby.

"I have to… to face it. It won't go away ever, and when I tell them, it won't go away. But Mrs. Lovett told me I was a good boy, and you told me to tell the truth. And she was pretty and she was… nasty, and you're pretty and not nasty, and I'm going to learn to read. And I'm going to learn to live."

"You will."

Rook comes into the cell, ready to bring Toby into the police station.

"They'll be flowers there, and if I care for them right, they won't die."

That's the last thing he says to her before he walks away. Her eyes follow Toby and Rook all the way down the hall. He turns around and waves at her, and she returns the gesture. And he's smiling. They turn the corner, and then it's just her and a bunch of raving lunatics and it's all normal in its twisted way. For a second she just rocks on the balls of her feet, back and forth and back and forth. She is compelled to laugh just to hear it reverberate off the walls. She wonders if he'll look the same in ten years. Will he remember Mrs. Lovett? Will he remember her?

She goes into her office to get through a little more paperwork before the dinner run. They are looking for Meeker's replacement and looking for Jack and looking for someone to fill the gap that Toby left behind_ (and you're pretty and not nasty…)_

Pretty?


	8. A Day in September

**VII. A Day in September, 1848. London, England.**

If she were to write a letter to Toby, she would have no idea where to begin.

Naturally, she would begin _Dear Toby_, but from there she would just stare at the paper and hope the words write themselves. It would be a hassle to send the letter anyway, and she does not even know where he is. They might have sent him to a boys' school or a prison or maybe just another asylum where they can keep an eye on him. She hopes there aren't bars. She hopes that the people know that there are just some things that he will never forget.

Tomorrow, she'll speak to someone else who is after Meeker's old position. She hasn't slept in weeks. The new inhabitant of Toby's old cell screams bloody murder every night. Rook's becoming more and more preoccupied with his wife's baby, the little bugger. She's responsible for over half the asylum now, and it's_ almost_ enough to just…

She remembers it's September. It's almost enough to make her smile again.

Every September, a man comes to keep the gate outside the asylum in a suitable condition. And she lingers at her window like a little girl because he is so _full _of something that she can't quite name. He whistles while he works, and he says hello to her every year. In her spare moments, she just watches him mend the fence that separates the people from the lunatics. She envies his freedom. She envies his overalls and his freckles.

And she can't help but wonder if he has a wife to go home to.

Jack said she fancied Meeker, which was beyond absurd, but she guesses she knows the feeling. No one knows, of course, and that's how it's going to stay. She only lets herself think about him in September, and once October comes, she forces it to the back of her mind. But the tune he whistles stays for years because it's a folk song she used to know by heart. Her mother used to sing it. Knitty used to hum it under her breath. Toby used to whistle it.

The paperwork can wait because he is looking at her. Of course, he always peeks into her window and waves, but it doesn't mean anything. He's simply being cordial, and if anything he only feels sorry for her. And maybe he regrets that fact that he's fixing the fence that keeps her in and everyone else out.

The fence is necessary, for safety. He is necessary. He is…

…beckoning her to join him. It would be beyond foolish of her to leave the building, especially since singing girl nearly strangled herself and people are hurling themselves against the walls. She counts to one hundred twenty three and feeds them and bathes them and keeps sane. But he has strong hands and she can see them from her window and she could start counting and forget about him and get back to the paperwork and ignore the rhythmic and giddy feeling at the pit of her stomach…

She goes. She can't help herself.

"Hello," he says fondly, almost an extension of his whistle.

"H-How can I help you?"

"Is everything here about business? I just wanted to say hello. I can never see your face from that window."

"I have work to do, and so do you," she snaps.

"Easy there, tiger. And I was scared that you were just as crazy as the rest of them."

"I'm _not_. And I'm not a-a tiger."

"Who says you are? Name's Ben, by the way. It's warm day for September, in't it?"

"I'm not here to discuss the weather. Is there anything important you want to say to me?"

She backs up slightly, and she is very thankful that there is a fence between them. There's a system of measurement in her head; he must be at least a meter away at all times. Him and his sandy hair and brown eyes and his smile. Otherwise, it's much too close (because she remembers Toby clutching her legs and she didn't mind it. and that scares her).

"As a matter of fact, I do. I wanted to tell you that you look much prettier with your hair down."

"I'm sorry, was I not c-clear? Is that important?"

"Oh, very. I can see your every move from here. It's a great view, climbing this fence. Do you want to try it?"

"Are you mad?"

"Wouldn't you know? Darling, you deal in madness."

"Darling? I shan't… won't tolerate this!"

"Won't you?"

Ben reaches for her hand through a hole in the fence, and he pulls her right up the fence, right up against him. The bits of wire prick into her skin. Yes, she feels the wires and not the outline of his hips against hers. And he's breathing right in her ear and it's shallow and it makes her shiver and it's like Toby sobbing. He kneads their hands together.

_(Who are you?) _

She is someone. She wants everyone to stop calling her ma'am. She wants to smile at someone without feeling like she's standing naked in a crowd. She wants to be able to ask a stranger about the weather. She wants a kiss.

"I live," he whispers, "in the heart of London, run a little repair shop down near Fleet Street. Ask for Ben. You'll find me, and I'll be waiting."

He releases her slowly, and his smile is so genuine that she'll listen. She can scamper away and finish her paperwork and secretly plan her escape. With the quid she has, she can get out as soon as next month. She'll collect her last dues at the end of October and leave first thing in the morning on Halloween. It will work.

If she could write Toby a letter, she would start _Dear Toby_, and she would tell him everything. There's Rook's wife and her baby and the promise of Ben and a new beginning. They are born to be reborn, her and Toby. He's entitled to a bunk bed in a boys' school and flowers he can water and someone he can depend on. She would write the letter and answer all of his questions, the ones he asked, the ones he didn't. And everything she didn't say would come to fruition right there on paper, her envy of his bravery, her hopes for him, her honest wish that he will be happy. And if she sent it he would read it because he would be able to.

(The paper says a boy was raped and murdered in a prison last night. It _couldn't_ be…)

And she would sign it with her name.


	9. Epilogue: Halloween

**October 31, 1835. London, England. 4:18 am.**

The moon slips out of London at night.

She used to know the faint trace of early moonlight in the evening very well, like a lover, like a part of _him_. That was a time where she did not just sit on the cold stone floor of her cell and wait for her hair to grow back. When it grows back, she thinks, it will be gold like it used to be, and it will be long enough that she could tangle it around her neck and…

Lucy Barker has more failures than she can count.

The biggest one is the foolish notion that maybe she could have saved _him_, could have given herself up the first time, could still have a barber and daughter and a nice bed with pillows. It's the guilt that's eating up her wits, not the arsenic in her blood or the memory of the man in the red robe. Benjamin could be seeing the moon in Australia and remembering. He could be getting whip lashes from a snarling warden. He could be dead.

And it could be her fault.

The wardens here are drunks, the whole lot of them. One of them has this skinny little daughter with these beady little blue eyes, and her footsteps haunt the asylum day and night. Lucy's not sane, but she knows this girl doesn't belong here. And she fights the desire to grab her and show her the way out of here.

Lucy knows.

If she removes two of the floor stones and shift a few more _just so_, she slip into the empty space. There's a stairway there and a system of old hallways. When she can't sleep, she moves the floor stones and disappears into the labyrinth below her. She sits in the darkness of the hallway and rocks herself, tears streaming silently down her face. Sometimes she pretends she is Johanna, and Lucy and Benjamin are singing her a lullaby. _It'll all be beautiful come spring_, they say. _Come again spring. _ But she is Lucy, so that Lucy is dead and Johanna was… is…

Yesterday, Lucy stole ink from one of the wardens. She intended to write a letter to Benjamin, but she had no paper, so she dripped little dots of black ink on the floor. The ink bottle is half-empty now, and now she just draws a line on the wall. One line, and soon she tracing the entire downstairs labyrinth. She realizes that if she follows all the pathways she's mapped out, it'll lead to the London sewers and…

The sea. She's there twenty minutes later.

Little Lucy weeps and watches the shadows of the boats that'll sail at dawn. She could go away forever, but Mrs. Lovett wouldn't give her any money. There is nowhere for her to go except maybe an alleyway or a whorehouse. People lose things, she thinks, it happens. She sees the silhouette of a woman and her son in a nearby window, and she can imagine her words to him because they are the Lucy's words too…

_There are people who have it in their hearts to love, and they are just waiting for you to find them._

**_Fin._**


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